Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) by Carla Norton

room, where she kicks off her Nikes and snatches up her cell phone.
    She calls Otis Poe. When he answers, she blurts out, “Otis, I just realized something important.”
    “Um, Reeve? Is that you?” His voice sounds sleepy.
    She bites a lip, picturing Poe’s new bride pulling the covers over her head with a groan. “I’m sorry, did I wake you up?”
    “Um, no, we’re awake. What were you saying?”
    “I just realized where Flint is.”
    “You did? Where?” Poe sounds instantly awake. “His mother’s, right? Because—”
    “No, he won’t go to his mother’s. He’ll go to Dr. Ick’s.”
    “Who’s Dr. Ick?”
    “Sorry. Dr. Ick is just a nickname. I mean he’ll go to Dr. Moody’s, his psychiatrist.”
    “Dr. Moody? Wasn’t he an expert witness at Flint’s trial?”
    “Right. And I figure that’s the first place Flint will go.”
    “Interesting. So, did you call the cops?”
    “No, I don’t want to get even more involved than I already am. Would you do it?”
    “I could, but it’s your theory. And you’re the one with the cred.”
    She grimaces. “I’d ask Dr. Lerner to call, but he’s in Brazil, working with those hostages who were just rescued.”
    “Really? I didn’t see anything about that in the news.”
    “No, you wouldn’t. The family paid a huge ransom. It’s very hush-hush.”
    Poe starts to speak, but Reeve quickly says, “Oh, crap, here I am blabbing to a reporter. Forget I said anything, okay?”
    “Okay.” He chuckles. “Unless, of course, it turns out there’s a link to Jefferson County.”
    Each shuffles through their thoughts for a moment, then Poe says, “Do you want the sheriff’s number? He gave a statement yesterday. I’ve got his name right here.”
    She suddenly has an idea. “No, never mind. I think I know someone,” she says, and hangs up.
    It takes no effort to conjure the name of the FBI agent who was so kind to her during Flint’s trial. “Special Agent Milo Bender,” she says aloud.
    It’s been years since she’s thought much about Bender. He was the case agent who stayed with her almost from the moment she was lifted from the trunk of her captor’s wrecked car.
    She remembers the crash, the spinning car, the abrupt stillness. She remembers being lifted onto a gurney, lights flashing all around. She remembers lying in a hospital bed, where Milo Bender’s lined face appeared even before her own parents’.
    “What’s your name, young lady?” he’d asked, bending over her.
    She swallowed hard and told him.
    “Glad to finally meet you, Reggie. We’ve been looking for you. But you’re safe now, okay?” he said, patting her hand. “Your parents are on their way. You’re going to be fixed up good as new, and then you can go home.”
    And when she looked into his pacific blue eyes, she knew it was true.
    Later, Agent Bender had been the one to escort her family into the courthouse. He’d taken them via the back entrance to a private elevator used by the judges. She balked at entering that tight, windowless box, but being with Agent Bender and her family made it tolerable.
    Once the trial was over, her family moved to San Francisco, leaving the ugliness of what happened in Seattle behind. And so the FBI agent, who had been so kind to her family, so patient with her, and so stony with the media, also faded into the past.
    She remembers that Agent Bender had programmed his number into her first cell phone. Seven years and several phones later, his number is still there. So, after mentally rehearsing what to say, she keys it up and calls.
    An electronic voice promptly announces that the number has been disconnected.
    She swears under her breath, wondering if something has happened to him, wondering if she should have stayed in touch. What’s the etiquette for crime victims and federal agents? Here’s another type of problem that normal people don’t have.
    A quick search yields the number for the FBI’s Seattle office. Figuring she can reach